


(There's No) Antidote

by PepperF



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Don't try this at home kids, Drugs, Evil Annie is kind of difficult to interrogate, F/M, despite the poison, it probably won't end well, kinks that are not a good idea, much cheerier than my other Darkest Timeline fic, or possibly poison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-15 23:53:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5805253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperF/pseuds/PepperF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Taste. That's what clued him in. The sour aftertaste to his scotch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(There's No) Antidote

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Bethany for betaing this one and not mocking me! ;)

The music is unbearable—too loud, too sharp. Colored lights flash, making the dry ice look like smoke in a burning building. Bodies are everywhere, heaving themselves to the beat. He can hardly breathe, too hot in his leather duster.

Academania is pandemonium.

Fortunately, he has an idea of where she might be, otherwise he could search for her until he dies. Not a metaphor.

Study room B. Neon paint. More bodies. The smoke tastes odd. Smells like... peaches? The lights are painfully bright, then leave him in the dark, then bright again—

She's there, in the center of the room, of course. She's not hiding. He pushes through people, rebounds, staggers to a halt, feeling sweat prickling his forehead and armpits. She looks like a demoness in that top. At the front it's a modest square of black leather, cut unusually high for her—but when she turns around, he can see that the square is held on by just a few thin straps, criss-crossing her naked back. She spins, all contrasts, flickering like strobe lighting: dark top, pale skin, dark hair, pale arms, dark skirt, pale legs, dark boots... The only color is in her lips. He focuses on them, and finds himself beside her.

She sees him, and turns her back, dangerous lips curving in a smile. Her skin, so pale... Fascinated, he reaches out a hand, needing to see the contrast between their skin. His hand leaves a trail of energy through the air—life leaking out of him. She shudders when he touches her, his hand spanning the space between her shoulder blades. She's warm as a fever. She turns to face him at last.

Those lips—so red and glossy, like something sweet and deadly. He'll bet they taste like—

Taste. That's what clued him in. The sour aftertaste to his scotch.

He shakes his head, trying to focus.

"What was it?" he growls, over the throbbing of the music.

She gives him a look through her lashes. Mock-innocence. Mocking _him_. "What?"

"My scotch. You put something in it. Drugs? Poison? I feel..."

_dizzy/sick/horny/euphoric/heavy/glowing/frenzied/hot_

For some reason he can't stop thinking of the word 'taupe'. It's so ugly… so beautiful in its hideousness…

Focus. What has she done, and how can he fix it?

"Am I gonna die?"

It's a very real concern.

Annie laughs. "We're all going to die, funny boy," she says. Either she's being philosophical or she's actually poisoned the whole school. That smoke did taste funny...

He grabs her shoulders, pushing her back. The crowd gives way as he pushes her towards the wall. She hits it with a thud, and ripples spread out through the air. He makes one last-ditch attempt to hold it together.

"What. Was. In. My. Scotch?"

She's not fazed by his violence. Nails—black as the heat-death of the universe—tease at him. He shivers. Too much sensation. It takes him a moment to focus on her words.

"—told you that drinking would kill you in the end."

She's—he doesn't have the words. He growls instead, shaking her.

"How long?" he demands hoarsely.

"Are you feeling pins and needles in your extremities?" She eyes him, her lashes long and tangled, and he can't remember how to speak. "Then you've got about half an hour," she says, coolly.

Something else. He needs to know… something else. She always has an exit strategy. But his head won't work—he's hot and cold, sweating, shivering. Everything is too bright and too dark. Flames flicker in his peripheral vision. The room is on fire. Only her red lips are staying still. He focuses on them, trying not to pass out.

Fuck it. If this is the end—

When he presses her back into the wall, kissing her, she doesn't hesitate. Greendale is burning, but she wraps herself around him, pulling him down.

She's saying words but they shimmer like heat haze, he can't make out most of them, just his name, and _yes_. Smoke billows over them, but he doesn't need to breathe anymore. His lips burn where they meet hers. Pins and needles and knives and splintered glass and red-hot pokers.

Her skin is white-hot, her hair curling and blackening—but she owns the flames, owns him. He can feel his heart stuttering, failing—but she lends him her energy, drawing him on, pulling him inside her.

She's the sun. She's life. She's searing his retinas and he doesn't care. He wants to flame away to ash in her fire...

Jeff's universe explodes.

\---

His head is pounding, but it feels clearer now. Enough to realize that he's just fucked her against a wall of the study room, in public. He groans, shifts—and without a condom, he realizes. They really need to address the dangerous games she keeps playing. It's a good thing he's evil now, or he might be a little embarrassed. Thank god for dry ice and long, black leather dusters.

"Shit, Annie. Tell me you didn't cook up something that's cured by orgasm."

He lets her slide to the floor, and she pats at his chest as he does up his pants. Under the flashing lights—which are seriously about to give him a migraine—her cheeks are flushed. "No, silly. That's impossible." She licks her lips, looking coy. "Do you like my new lipgloss?"

He ponders the question. "You put the antidote in your lipgloss?" he guesses. She smiles proudly. "Annie, you've gotta stop doing this. Someday you might actually kill me."

"Oh don't be such a big baby," she chides, as if _poisoning him and putting the cure in her lipgloss_ is a thing everyone does, and not something the CIA , if they were in a playful mood, might have done to Castro. "Did you enjoy it?"

What does it say about him that he kind of did? "No," he says, aware that his voice lacks conviction. "Annie, I could have _died_."

She smirks. "You're welcome."

"I... that's not..."

Oh, seriously, who is he kidding? He was the one who convinced the jury to release her, after all. 

He lowers his voice into the growl she loves. "I'm gonna tie you to the bed and make you beg for forgiveness," he threatens. She lowers her eyes, her flush spreading deliciously from her cheeks all the way down her neck and under that goddamn top. 

"When? Soon?" she whispers. "Now?"

Fuck, she's the best kind of crazy. He grabs her wrist, towing her along behind him as he strides for the exit. His twisted goddess. His angel of anarchy. His beautiful maniac.

She might well be the death of him someday, but what a ride it will be.


End file.
